


Hello to Hate

by lycheees



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Crossdressing, First Meetings, M/M, Trans Kurapika, the fight scenes... I Tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26859949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lycheees/pseuds/lycheees
Summary: Among Kurapika's expectations when applying to become a bodyguard to the Nostrade family, crossdressing as his employer’s daughter hadn’t been very high on the list, if at all.
Relationships: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Kurapika
Comments: 15
Kudos: 201





	Hello to Hate

**Author's Note:**

> Day 4: Scarlet
> 
> (except it was supposed to be for the 5th... except... yeah I have no excuse other than time blindness and genshin impact)
> 
> This got a tiny bit... long for a prompt fic, so I decided to post it separately from the others. Peep the Tokyo Ghoul reference.

Kurapika was by no means ignorant of his fair looks. Despite his messily cropped hair, and his strong lingering attachment to his clan that had him reaching for his traditional clothes most days, he knew he could pull off a few fits. Naturally, he enjoyed the comfort that came with loose, baggy clothes that didn’t restrict his movements during a fight, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look good in leather jackets, graphic tees and skinny jeans—or even sundresses and heels, when he felt like it.

Still, crossdressing to disguise himself as his employer’s daughter hadn’t been high on his list of expectations when he’d first applied as a bodyguard to the Nostrade family.

“With all due respect, why not have Baise do it?” he asked during the meeting.

“Because in case things go haywire, we wouldn’t want pictures of the mafia’s daughter seducing her way out to end up on the newspaper, even if it is to save her own hide,” Baise replied, amused.

 _She’s old enough to collect body parts but not old enough for people to see her kiss?_ Kurapika wanted to bite back, but held his tongue. Dalzollene was levelling them with an unimpressed look.

“We do what Boss’ father wants,” his voice bellowed throughout the room, “and what Boss’ father wants is for Boss to stay out of harm’s way. She can’t reveal her own prophecy, but if you apply the worst-case scenario to his fortune he got last night, Boss _will_ die.”

The room fell quiet.

Kurapika had no attachment to the girl, only a protective obligation, but the same couldn’t be said for the older bodyguards, especially Dalzollene. Kurapika recounted the poem in his head, describing Light Nostrade’s first week of the month:

_Greed claims your most prized possession._

_Your heart has returned to the moon;_

_With her, the weight of gold in your hands._

_Lady luck no longer smiles upon you._

No doubt Neon was her father’s ‘most prized possession,’ considering the fact that the empire he’d created had been built on her lithe, fragile shoulders. Moreover, the auction was a place where billions of jenny would be exchanged, all in the name of greed.

Kurapika wondered if the girl had ever even taken the time to understand or expand her abilities. Then again, perhaps it would be better off for everyone if an avid flesh collector was kept in the dark about her potential.

*

It was the evening of the auction, and Kurapika was getting ready in his room. He’d gone shopping earlier on in the day, browsing through various stores until he’d found one that offered up to 70% discount for Pro Hunters. It hadn’t taken long for him to pick out a deep scarlet dress—it even came with matching evening gloves, which were the perfect length to hide his chains in.

There was a knock in his door. “Come in,” he said, amid tying up the wig on his head up in a ponytail. He tried not to think about how Eliza had given it to him from Neon’s vast collection, all made from real hair.

The door clicked open, and there was an appreciative whistle. Kurapika’s eye twitched. “Thanks, Baise.”

“Here to provide some moral support,” Baise deadpanned, but Kurapika could feel her eyes tracking down his body, “seems like you’ve got it covered though.”

Turning around to face her, he said, “It’s been a while since I’ve worn dresses. Though I’m not sure how convincing this blue wig and the blue contact lenses are.”

Eyes flickered from Kurapika’s chest to the bandages on his bed. “Why worry so much? From what I’ve heard, not a lot of people have actually seen the young missy up close, and you’ll be wearing a mask. Speaking of which,” she said, tossing Kurapika a sparkling Colombina in the same colour as his dress.

Just as he caught it, Basho came storming in. “Hurry it up! Dalzollene is waiting for you.”

Kurapika nodded. He took one last look in the mirror, holding the mask in place for examination. When he compared himself to Neon, he found that his eyes were too sharp, the line of his mouth and shoulders pressed too thin to imitate the carefree spirit of a young mistress. Then again, it wasn’t as if there had been a variety of options to begin with; they would just have to settle.

More importantly, tonight, he’d have his revenge.

*

Ten minutes into entering the building and announcing his position in one corner of the reception flanked by Basho and Ivlenkov, Kurapika had already attempted to dodge a dozen hands that had strayed far too close to the hem of his skirt. Whispers of _that’s Nostrade’s kid_ echoed throughout the room, and Kurapika was half-glad that Neon wasn’t here to be subjected to their vulgar attention.

But he knew that their curiosity regarding Neon went beyond old men’s lust—Light Nostrade wasn’t exactly the most popular figure in the underworld with how fast he’d amassed his fortune, and Neon’s unique ability would have surely made its way around thanks to her vast clientele by now.

It was ten past eight. Although the bidding had yet to occur, Kurapika decided to sneak off into the auditorium, away from the reception hall where the mafia bosses were mingling and expanding their network. Fortunately, his current mission didn’t require him to speak with anyone important or unimportant.

With a flash of his pass and a smile, Kurapika was let into the main hall, and he breathed in the scent of wood polish and—

_Alcohol?_

To his right, a flute of champagne was held out for him. When he followed the line of the stranger’s hand to his face, Kurapika was met with gentle eyes, belonging to a pale man who looked to be in his late twenties. His bangs fell around the bandages wrapped around his head, the teal of his earrings a cool contrast to his warm smile. His own mask was startlingly plain, white and outlined with tiny diamonds.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he offered, voice just as kind.

Kurapika plastered on his best fake smile, pitching his voice slightly higher than normal; nothing too suspicious. “Oh no, I’m too young to drink.”

The man’s eyebrows were hidden, but Kurapika could see them lifting in surprise. Shit, would mafia princesses even care about the legal age of drinking?

“I see, I apologize for being presumptuous,” he said, and Kurapika’s heaved an inward sigh of relief. The man waited for the server to come by, and to Kurapika’s surprise, switched it out for another glass. “Here, apple juice.”

Kurapika blinked twice at him, and then two more times at the glass, and then let out a loud snort followed by loud laughter. Basho looked at him like he was crazy, while Ivlenkov stood there, stunned. After all, being the air-conditioning system he was, Kurapika was hardly what you’d call the life of a party, constantly carrying an air of professionalism, holding people at arm’s length. He wasn’t _cold,_ per se, but he wasn’t… prone to laughter either.

The shock on the stranger’s face mirrored that of the bodyguards’, but it slowly morphed into a playful smile of his own. “You have a nice laugh.”

Immediately, the air was sucked out of Kurapika’s lungs, and he glared at the stranger, cheeks tinged with red. He’d been so tense the whole mission that he hadn’t realized how wound up he’d been—until this guy had come along. He coughed into a fist. “I’ll take the apple juice, thanks.”

They clinked their flutes together in a silent toast. After a beat, the older man asked, “Forgive me for prying, but I hear you’re quite apt at the art of telling fortunes.”

Next to Kurapika, Basho took up a defensive stance. “Hey, you—”

“It’s quite alright,” Kurapika said, voice light. But when he turned to smile at Basho, his eyes were warning him: _don’t act up._ Turning to the stranger, he provided an affirmative, throwing in some false modesty.

“You think you can tell my fortune for me?”

_“Hey—”_

_There it is,_ Kurapika thought, lips curling around the rim of his flute. Just a curious fan, it seemed. He fixed Basho with one last warning glare. “Sorry, Papa said never to give them out for free.”

“Is that so? What a disappointment,” the man sighed, but didn’t really sound _that_ disappointed. Perhaps he was just looking for someone to chat with. Regardless, Kurapika was on a mission, and so distractions from the harmless man would have to be kept to a minimum. “Tell me, do you believe in fate?”

Kurapika quirked an eyebrow, a remark about how the man could use better pickup lines dangling on the tip of his tongue. But before he could deliver it, he noticed the odd expression on his face: inquisitive, and most of all, serious.

Kurapika supposed it wouldn’t hurt to humour him.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. Had it been fate that saved him from falling off that cliff so long ago, or had it been a friend? Had it been fate that left him standing between the line of preservation and extinction of his clan, or had it been a group of bandits?

“I see.”

“But if fate were real,” Kurapika added, more to himself than anything, “I’d kill myself before I let it take me.” He stared into his drink, all too aware of several pairs of eyes on him.

Had he said too much?

After an impossibly long silence, the man spoke up. _“…One can only destroy things one cannot change.”_ Upon hearing the familiar quote, Kurapika snapped his head up at the stranger, eyes widening. The gaze he was met with was curious, challenging even. “You would destroy yourself before fate veers your course?”

 _You don’t have to answer him,_ Kurapika told himself, but the word slipped out before he could help it: “Yes.”

“Interesting.” Kurapika waited for an elaboration, or even the stranger’s own answer to the question, but all the man offered was a brief hum after one more sip of champagne.

To his credit, the stranger didn’t try to chat Kurapika up again, letting the next few minutes pass by in silence as they finished their drinks. They both stayed where they were, unmoving and watching as more and more people filled up the auditorium, until to his own surprise, Kurapika broke the silence. “Takatsuki Sen—you’re a fan of hers?” he asked, recalling the quote.

“I am. Especially of her debut work, _Dear Kafka_. It’s interesting, how the protagonist finds himself stifled by his own identity, recognizing aspects of his character to be products of his abusive upbringing and so attempts to run away.”

It was the most the man had said throughout the night, and Kurapika couldn’t resist adding his two cents. “He who is empty holds no weight, and so is free.”

“That’s an interesting interpretation,” the man mused.

“And what do you think?”

“He who abandons everything for freedom will never be satisfied with anything,” he said without missing a beat, and after a brief pause: “and yet Kafka ended up returning home, grieving his father’s death.”

Despite everything, Kurapika found himself intrigued. “I never thought of it that way.”

The man shrugged. “We can both be right.”

“Or we could both be wrong.”

Laughter spilled from him, and Kurapika could feel his shoulders and lips loosening at the sound. For once, the people pooling into the hall didn’t make him nervous. “Seems like you’d rather be at home reading than bidding.”

“I’m not,” the man hummed, “Looking for anything, that is.”

“Just here for fun, then?”

“If the entertainment lives up to expectations,” the man said, chuckling to himself as if recalling an inside joke. “And you?”

Kurapika grimaced, but his voice was steady when he answered, “The Scarlet Eyes.”

The man tilted his head, appraising the length of Kurapika’s body. “You have a thing for the colour?” Kurapika shrugged. “It suits you.”

Although he could say with certainty that the stranger most definitely approached him with the intention of speaking with _Neon Nostrade_ in mind, Kurapika couldn’t help smiling at the compliment. He thought that perhaps the apple juice _had_ been a little alcoholic, and then surprised himself for the second time that night when he lifted a gloved finger and _flicked_ the man’s earring.

“As does teal on you.”

The next thing he knew, Kurapika was excusing himself, head hung low as he stormed towards the bathroom outside with Basho hot on his trail. “Oi, no boy toys on the mission,” he grunted, and very nearly regretted the decision when Kurapika turned to bore holes into his head.

“He is _not_ a boy toy!” Kurapika hissed, face red, and slammed the woman’s bathroom door in Basho’s face.

Inside, Kurapika lamented every sin he’d committed up until this very moment, for he could find no other way to explain his own odd behaviour — in front of a nameless stranger, no less — but surely, _surely!_ — he was just playing up the act, no more, no less.

 _Fuck,_ he needed to get it together. Checking the time, Kurapika saw that he still had a few minutes before the auction started. Regardless, Basho and Ivlenkov would know what to do if the Scarlet Eyes went up for bidding before he got back. Between his anticipation of the Phantom Troupe, how close he was to the eyes and just, fuck, his general stressful disposition, Kurapika felt like a frayed nerve on the verge of snapping.

Not to mention, there was _that guy._

It was an almost frustrating fact that the man had prompted an easy sort of environment, the kind Kurapika had never really sought out, sometimes outright rejected in his quest for revenge—and that quiet lull, not dissimilar to Senritsu’s tune, contrasted the tension that had slowly crept into the fibres of his muscles since morning.

He gave himself a slap in the face for good measure, before splashing water over his tired skin, mask off. His fatigue could have been slightly remedied had he sucked up his pride and asked Senritsu to play for him so that he’d have gotten a good night’s sleep the night before, but he hadn’t. Now, he was suffering from dry eyes. Deciding to let them rest for a minute or two, he took off his contact lenses.

And then came the gunshots and screams.

Coming back on high alert, Kurapika immediately made a beeline for the door, disregarding his lenses on the bathroom sink, and then his right glove on the reception floor, bringing out his chains. The door to the auditorium was flung open as the guests ran out screaming, but Kurapika couldn’t find who he was looking for among them.

_Basho. Ivlenkov._

He dashed forward. Could it be the Phantom Troupe? The idea sent a rush of blood to his head, but he willed himself to calm down. Although the probability was high—there was no other gang of bandits strong enough to attempt an otherwise foolish venture—Kurapika still had to be careful. He absolutely couldn’t run the risk of using the chain on his middle finger on a non-Spider, lest he died.

And he meant what he’d said to the stranger: that he would only die on his terms, after retrieving every single one of his brethren’s eyes.

The single entrance meant that Kurapika had to fight his way through the mass of panicked people, pushing and shoving. Instinctively, he activated Ten, though if the enemy’s gunshots were of Nen nature, his barrier would be as good as useless.

Just as Kurapika stepped through the door, he found himself launched back, landing on the floor with a loud _thud._ He was about to shove the passer-by off when he realized that it was the man from before, this time without his blazer or mask.

“Don’t go in there.”

Kurapika glared at him. “Get off me, my friends are inside!”

_And I need to capture them. I need my revenge!_

To his shock, when Kurapika attempted to push the man away, his wrists were easily caught by two hands. “You’re pretty strong,” the man said, casually as if a bloody event wasn’t playing out right behind them, but his eyes widened when he spotted the chains on Kurapika’s right hand. “You’re not…”

“Let—”

And that was when Kurapika noticed: the man had discarded more than his mask and his jacket; the bandages around his head were gone, and imprinted on his forehead was a tattoo of a unique-looking cross.

Hisoka’s message rang in his head: _Chrollo has a cross tattoo on his forehead, and he has teal earrings. He’s quite pretty, though I’d love to pluck his eyebrows. And head, possibly._ ** _♡_**

Kurapika saw red.

In the next moment, Kurapika was standing back up, his kick sending Chrollo flying across the room, breaking through the wall. He gave the man no time to recover, sending the middle chain in a straight trajectory towards Chrollo. However, the man was fast, sidestepping the attack and winding through the pillars like a snake.

Kurapika was barely in his right mind. He was a bit too fast, too predictable, too blinded by anger to assess the situation properly. He didn’t know if his chains could hold Chrollo down even if he took away his Nen. But time was of the essence, and he didn’t have much to spare. Let Chrollo go, and it would be another long journey before he got his hands on any of the Troupe members. He couldn’t count on Hisoka’s impulsive cooperation forever.

Despite his own unlocked Enhancer ability, Kurapika could barely scratch Chrollo, whose speed was impressive to say the least. It didn’t help that they were in a crowded area, which meant Kurapika couldn’t freely swing his chain around and destroy things in case of human collateral.

Distracted in his thoughts to form a plan, Kurapika found Chrollo inches away from his face in the next moment. Although it was but a mere second, he could see it in the man’s eyes: a brilliant thrill that came with fighting a strong opponent. An image of Hisoka flashed through Kurapika’s mind; how the clown cared for little in the world aside from sating his own bloodlust.

Linking that same bloodlust to the scene he’d encountered five years ago made Kurapika viscerally sick.

Kurapika dodged Chrollo’s attack successfully, but now he was the one cornered, Chrollo coming at him with a knife. He only briefly registered the blue wig in Chrollo’s other hand.

“That’s an interesting ability you have! Won’t you tell me more about it?”

“As if I’d stand to chat with the likes of you!” Kurapika roared, whipping his chain out but crushing the banister on the first floor instead of the target.

“But we were getting along so well!”

Kurapika’s next swing missed again, hitting the wall and sending debris flying in a fog. The tip of a knife pierced through it, but it ended up stabbing air—when Chrollo looked around, Kurapika was nowhere to be found.

Then came another hard kick to Chrollo’s back, devastating the wall as his body crashed into it. Kurapika felt the last minute Nen shield form on Chrollo’s spine beneath his feet, and _tsked_.

_“Burn in hell, scum.”_

Just as he was about to land another blow, Kurapika instinctively pulled back, only just dodging the sword in his face. He jumped away, taking up the defensive. When the smoke cleared not too long after, Kurapika saw that Chrollo was not alone — a shorter, paler man in a suit stood in front of him in a protective stance, sword drawn.

“Who the hell’s this bitch? Boss, you’ve grown soft.”

Kurapika cursed. A two-on-one would land him in a disadvantage, considering he had yet to gauge the extent of their individual strength. He quickly glanced around—no one else for now, just the two.

Standing up to dust himself off, Chrollo chuckled. He looked worse for wear, but Kurapika had dealt no substantial damage. “Thanks for the backup. You’re all done inside?”

 _“Tch._ The items were nowhere to be found. We came for nothing.”

 _Nowhere to be found? Did someone get to them first?_ It clicked then: how the Dons were among Neon’s most prolific clients, and that they’d undoubtedly brought the items away to a safe place without informing the guests, who had been nothing more than bait.

However, Kurapika had no time to process his thoughts further. Without warning, the two Spiders charged at him, flanking him left and right.

_Shit, shit, shit!_

The smaller man was just as fast, if not faster than Chrollo, but nothing that Kurapika’s eyes couldn’t keep up with. He braced himself for a double attack, focusing Nen into his defence.

What came next was not a punch, or a kick, however—not even a blast of Nen. Instead, there was a light tap on his head, and when he looked up, Kurapika came face-to-face with Chrollo once more. Time slowed down in that very moment, just as those dark eyes carved a space in his soul.

“As I thought, scarlet really does suit you.”

He’d only missed a beat—but a beat was more than enough for the other man’s sword to cut through Kurapika’s side, a mere inch away from his vitals. Intuition pushed him forward—he flung out his chain one more time, but it didn’t catch its target.

When the debris cleared, both Chrollo and his companion stood a distance away, observing Kurapika but made no move to attack. Soon, a third person emerged from the auditorium, towering over them both.

Chrollo turned around. “Feitan, Franklin, let’s go.”

“That bastard nearly got you. You sure you don’t want to finish the job now?”

“No. I have a feeling we’ll meet again.” Just as he was poised to escape, he peered over his shoulder one last time. “Call it fate.”

A charged chain whipped through the air at the three figures, but they were already gone by the time it made contact with the nearest wall.

Kurapika stood in the centre of the reception hall, all alone.

_Damn it._

_Damn it all!_

Kurapika’s nails dug into his palm, but even as the blood from his hands and his side formed a puddle on the floor, he didn’t move. He couldn’t, not with the overwhelming feeling of failure and shame threatening to swallow him up like the ocean. Not with the bloody hands of the past clinging to his shoulders, moaning, asking why he didn’t finish the job.

 _Couldn’t_ finish the job.

His feet felt like lead, dragging across the floor towards the main hall, adding him to the count of dead bodies inside. There, he found the bloody corpses of Basho and Ivlenkov, but he felt nothing—no grief, no anger.

Just an indescribable emptiness.

When he brought his comrades back, he monotonously reported the entire event to Dalzollene—the Troupe’s attack, the displaced goods, how he’d gotten lucky in his escape. Senritsu tried speaking with him just as the meeting was adjourned, but was met with a cold shoulder.

That night, Kurapika lay in bed, curtains flung open to welcome the moonlight in. The blood moon bathed his figure in red, and the shadows from the corners of his room seemed to creep towards him, their claws digging into his chest.

When the clock struck twelve, Kurapika dragged himself to the courtyard, red dress and gloves in hand, uncaring of the security cameras capturing his every move. He burned the clothes, watched the fire grow higher and higher as if reaching for the moon. The night was cold in contrast, the wind picking up soon after and batting the flame down to its last embers.

Hours later when the exhaustion finally sunk into his bones, Kurapika fell asleep to a thief’s laughter and the colour teal.

**Author's Note:**

> Kurapika Was Drowning In An Indescribable Emptiness.


End file.
